


Wake Up

by psychosocio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Dreaming, Gen, So much angst, friendships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosocio/pseuds/psychosocio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm not good at summaries, so just basic John Watson as the main character. Most of the summary is in the tags and such above.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That's what people do, don't they?

John woke up to the sound of alarms. Harsh, sharp, piercing alarms. When he opened his eyes, he saw a white hallway filled with white lab coats dashing back and forth. He immediately realized he was in a hospital, easily recognizing the stethoscopes around various doctors' necks among others dressed in scrubs. The only thing he didn't know was why and when he arrived there. Various voices were yelling for adrenaline, paddles . . . there was a single solitary beep, continuous and annoying. John watched as a vaguely familiar woman started forward with a shocked expression on her face. She shook her head slowly as the sound continued.

"No," she whispered. "Please, _no_."

She began to cry, standing still far from the doorway, no longer able to move. John watched her through his foggy thoughts and tried to think back to where he knew her from. She was a short brunette who was also wearing a lab coat with a beige jumper on underneath. The sweater was covered in little red cherries, one of the sweetest things John could possibly imagine. She fell to her knees, and a blonde woman came up to her and took her elbow. She was crying too, but less violently.

It was difficult to decipher what the brunette was saying, but John caught parts of it. "Oh, Mary, Mary . . . I loved him, I never . . . my fault . . . _Sherlock_."

John's head shot up at the mention of that name. That name . . . He knew it. How did he know it? He racked his brain for any instances he may have heard the name Sherlock Holmes. He tried very hard but was stopped by a sudden ringing in his ears along with an intense migraine. Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes to cut off all vision and light. _Sherlock Holmes._ The name repeated itself over and over again in his mind until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into blue-gray eyes and a mess of dark curls. _Sherlock Holmes_ , his mind kept repeating. _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes_. The man wore a dark coat and a blue scarf, despite it being the middle of Summer. Strange, John thought. _Sherlock Holmes_. He slipped a note into John's hand and he stood up with a grim expression.

"Goodbye, John."

John's chest constricted and he felt like he couldn't breathe. His vision darkened as a memory took its place. _He stood outside of a tall building and he felt his hand close to his face. He was on the phone with someone. Someone important. He felt his heart pounding, his breath quickening as a deep voice resonated in his left ear._

_"This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_John's heart sank and he felt he could no longer breathe. His voice vibrated in his throat. "Leave a note when?"_

**.O.o.o.O.**

 

"John," a soft voice whispered nearby.

John looked up and felt the piece of paper in his hand. The blonde woman again. He felt weak and pushed himself up into a sitting position with great effort. He gasped at the pain in his neck and dropped his head back against the wall. Squeezing his eyelids together, he took deep breaths to try to dull the pain.

"John, are you alright?"

A small hand lay in his and he squeezed it, feeling the familiar squeeze in return. He knew this woman. Yes. It was his wife." _Mary_ ," he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, John?"

She waited patiently as John struggled to tilt his head toward her and open his eyes. When he did, she saw grief, pain, confusion. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes and struggled to keep her expression soft.

"What's happened?" John looked at her face and longed to reach out and cup her cheek in his hand, but his arm was heavy and he could still see darkness at the edges of his vision. His eyebrows knitted together as he recalled his memory and the noises. "I--I remember . . . not much. There were noises . . . a flatline. And a girl . . . She was crying. I saw . . . "

Mary shook her head, still not able to take the full blow of Sherlock's death. She closed her eyes and tears rolled evenly down her cheeks as her chin trembled with her muffled cries.

"Mary," she heard John say again. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"Everything's gone south, John." She gasped in breath as she spoke. She looked up into John's eyes and took a breath before speaking. "Sherlock . . . He's been -- murdered."

 


	2. The Note

John paced back and forth in the living room, thinking of nothing in particular. Mary sat on the couch and tried to ignore him, but she put her book down with a heavy sigh, abandoning any hopes of catching up on the series she was reading.

"John, what on earth are you pacing around like that for?"

The man in question stopped and turned to look at his wife. His arms were crossed and his fists were clenched. "Im sorry," he said sarcastically, bending down to eye-level, "am I disturbing her highness?"

Mary sighed. "John, don't—"

"Well, I'm sorry for trying to calm down. I'm sorry that I'm trying to forget that my best friend—" John's eyes started to water and he began to pace again. "You won't understand. You _can't_."

Mary stood and stood in front of John, holding onto his shoulders. She looked into his tired, angry, grief-ridden eyes. "I might if you would just _tell me_."

John shook his head and walked past Mary, heading into their room. She tried calling after him but only received the loud slamming of the bedroom door in return. She decided to let him be for a while and returned to her spot on the couch. She once again held her book in her hands, but her mind was uncontrollably flooding her vision with images of Sherlock. The first time she met him, when he had drawn that ridiculous mustache on his upper lip; at her wedding, all dressed up (it had made her giggle at the time, but now all she felt was grief); when he exploited her in front of John. Then, most horrifying of all, was the image of Sherlock lying on the ground, motionless, with a syringe stuck in the side of his neck. Next to him was his alleged murderer, a gunshot in his chest and his head, perfectly aimed. Sherlock's doing, due to the gun that Mary saw in his hand. _At least he killed the bloke,_ she thought half-heartedly to herself.

Mary decidedly put her book down when she realized that her own tears were getting the pages wet. Sniffling, she pulled a blanket around herself and continued to cry into the fabric, trying to not make too much noise.

**.O.o.o.O.**

John shut the door behind him and immediately went to his bedside table to search for the little piece of paper. He found it sitting on top, neatly folded into a square. Sherlock's doing and John's re-doing. He unfolded the paper and carefully re-read what was written inside.

_**Wake up.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, randomly inspired chapter, hope you liked it! As always, please comment below with your critiques.


End file.
